


Wide Open to the Sun

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: Phryne and Jack are in London, and have moved from friends to lovers. Phryne sees Jack's soulmate tattoo, and they talk about its meaning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The windows of my soul I throw  
> Wide open to the sun.  
> ~John Greenleaf Whittier, _My Psalm_
> 
> I don't remember what started the discussion of the soulmate trope, but we pointed out that the trope is all about lack of choice—which is in direct opposition to the show, which is all about the choices you make—and how Phryne in particular would chafe at it. We moved on to how the three soulmate fics we already had in this fandom were so good, allowing for that choice even within the structure of the trope, and then there were challenges thrown around (I'm looking at you, Fire_Sign), and ideas, and some were written that day, and some people (like me) went away and wrote one the next day or the next week, and now it's a *thing*. I hope you like this one, and I hope you'll be inspired to write one of your own—I would love to see what our super-talented fanfic writers come up with! This particular collection will be open until February 1, 2017—though if you come to this after that date, it doesn't mean you can't write your own!

**London, 1929**

Jack and Phryne lay facing each other, their bodies lax with release, murmuring quietly in the way that new lovers do. 

“I take it that your voyage wasn’t all that exhausting then?” Phryne smiled into his eyes, and he laughed, both of them remembering the mutual ravishment they’d managed the moment they’d stepped into the privacy of her townhome.

“I’d been reserving my strength. I knew I’d need it to keep up with you.” His smile was crooked and tender, and he raised his hand to trace a finger over her cheekbone. He touched her gently, reverently, stroking her jawline, the curve of her lips, the bridge of her nose, even her eyebrows, as if he was memorizing the textures of her face. Phryne let out a small hum of pleasure, her eyelids fluttering.

As she enjoyed his touch, her eyes caught on the word that was centered on his left forearm, its curving whorls beautiful and yet its meaning clear. She caught his hand, pulling it away for a moment to check that it read as she thought it had.

“‘Ta’? Your soulmate’s first words were just ‘ta’?” Her eyes flew to his. “That’s not particularly helpful, is it?” 

He chuckled. “I know. I must have looked a right nutter, examining every person who said it to me from the day it appeared on my arm.”

“I’ve heard it hurts.” At his quizzical look, she elaborated. “When it appears, I mean.”

“What, don’t you know?”

In answer, she held up her own left arm, its flesh clear and pale, with no elaborately curlicued soulmate sentence in evidence.

“I always assumed that I never had one because I was meant to die at Murdoch Foyle’s hands,” she mused, as his butterfly touch moved to trace lines across that blank skin. “Since Janey died instead of me.”

“I suppose that could be,” Jack said quietly. “Though I’ll admit to being happy that you survived.” His eyes met hers again, and she leaned in to kiss him sweetly. 

“So am I, Jack,” she said, her smile turning wicked. “Particularly at this moment.” She shifted, pressing closer to him, and he grinned, running his hand up her arm and down her back.

“To answer your question, it did hurt—like a branding, almost. Heat and sharply drawn lines—I could feel every curl as it was carved into my skin.” He shook his head. “I pity those people whose first sentences are longer.”

She hissed in a breath. “Sounds dreadful.”

“It was, and yet wonderful at the same time. I was in church when it happened—don’t laugh!” But he smiled at her merriment. “My mother made us go every weekend. At any rate, it happened in the middle of a sermon. I was sitting there, clutching my arm and trying not to vomit as the rest of the congregation said their amens. Thankfully, it was over quickly. Just two letters.”

“You poor thing,” she chuckled. “Did you cry out?”

“No, I managed not to, though there might have been tears.” He tilted his head to look at her. “Manly ones, you understand.”

“Of course,” she said, her voice dry. “And how old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Young, then?” 

Most people’s soulmate sentence—their “tag” in the common vernacular—showed up around their sixteenth birthday, though it could come at any time. Phryne had heard of children as young as four getting theirs. The oldest she’d heard of someone getting a tag was twenty-three, so she knew that her lack of one would likely be permanent. Truth be told, she didn’t mind the lack, no matter how romantic it had seemed when she was a teenager; these days, she’d had quite enough of not being in charge of her own life.

“Mmm,” he agreed. “My sister didn’t get hers till she was nearly twenty.” He grimaced. “Hers says ‘Welcome to the National Gallery of Victoria’. She screamed, I’m told.”

“Oh, poor thing!” Phryne winced at the thought. “You weren’t there?”

“No, I was away at school.” He shrugged a little. “It did make her more interested in art, though. Or at least in the museum.” 

Phryne chuckled again at his wry smile, and snuggled close, tracing her fingertips against his chest. They were quiet for a little while, lost in their own thoughts, the silence comfortable. When Jack spoke, his voice was quiet.

“Rosie said ‘Ta, love’ as her first words to me—I was handing her a cup of tea in her father’s office—and I thought that was close enough.” He sighed softly. “I replied ‘my pleasure,’ and that’s what her tag said. We thought that we were soulmates, but if we were, it wasn’t enough.”

“Jack…”

“I think we stopped working at it. At the marriage. We just assumed that everything would be all right, but it wasn’t.”

Phryne tilted her head back, searching his eyes. He gave her a look that was melancholy but not really sad, and he raised a hand to stroke her hair back from her face.

“I’m all right.” He trailed his fingers along her cheekbone, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve found a heartmate, and that’s better than a soulmate any day.” He meant it. He’d always chafed at the idea that some cosmic, supposedly all-knowing force would choose a mate for him. He preferred to make his own choices. He smiled slightly, his big hand sliding to cup the back of her head. 

“Jack…” The word was hardly a whisper as it left her lungs.

“No, really. I know the idea of there being one person out there for everyone is soothing to some people—it was for me when I was younger. But a heartmate...” He kissed her softly, his lips lingering against hers as he whispered. “A heartmate is someone you choose, someone you have to work to be worthy of. And if they choose you back, well… it feels earned.”

Phryne deepened the kiss, pushing him backward to straddle his waist, her fingers gripping at his shoulders. She stretched against him, feeling his hardness between her thighs; with a shift of her hips, she took him inside, her chest pressed to his as she gently undulated against him. She spoke against his lips and he breathed in her words like oxygen.

“I choose you, Jack Robinson.” Phryne whispered into his mouth. “I never could abide being told what to do.”

Jack’s chuckle was a little choked, and it cut off as he kissed her deeply. It was a long time before they spoke again.

*****

**Melbourne, 1910**

Jack Robinson was fourteen, and he knew that footie was the best thing on earth. He planned to play professionally someday, after he won the Tour de France. His father had brought him to this game, even though they didn’t support either of the teams, purely as an exercise in critical thinking. It was something they did regularly, and Jack loved it—the time alone with his father, the sounds and scents of the game, the noise of the crowd.

He was making his way back to his father in the stands, having fetched a basket of sandwiches from his mother. It seemed that he was always hungry these days. He hoped she’d made several for him.

His eye was caught by the girl mostly because of the size of her (very small) in relation to the size of the glass of beer she held (very large). She was maybe nine or ten, and she had to hold the beer in two hands to keep it from spilling. She approached the door to the visiting team’s clubhouse and paused, considering. Jack could see that there’d be no way she could get that door open, so he jogged over.

“Here, let me.” He reached past her—her dark head barely reached the middle of his chest—and pulled the door open to let her through.

Her smile was both relieved and mischievous, and he smiled in return at the humor in her bright blue-green eyes.

“Ta,” she said as she ducked past him and headed into the building. Closing the door behind her, he headed back toward the stands, his mind once again on his mother’s sandwiches. 


End file.
